


Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

by Northerlywind



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Did I Mention Angst?, Gen, Melancholy, Old Age, Old Friends, Science Bros, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/pseuds/Northerlywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tony had a timer going, had one ticking down since the caves, and he knew he was living his second life as it was but that didn’t make him any less bitter about it winding down."</p>
<p>Tony Stark celebrates his 65th. Well, 'celebrates' is not quite the word for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> _"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,_  
>  _Creeps in this petty pace from day to day_  
>  _To the last syllable of recorded time,_  
>  _And all our yesterdays have lighted fools_  
>  _The way to dusty death."_  
>  — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5)

It started with his arc reactor. There was a problem with the wires, as was so often the case, and he _could_ have asked Dum-E but the thing about humans was that they had such precision in their fingertips so as to discern the volume of milk from the slightest shake of the carton — so he asked Pepper. As he lay there, trying to maintain even breaths, trying not to wriggle too much, trying not to make comments, he felt... a strange sensation. When he brushed his fingertips together, he could feel the slightest tingling, and if Tony Stark didn’t know the reason, who could tell him whether it was the impromptu operation or something else? So, he kept it to himself, cracked jokes when Pepper (making a face) declared the job done, and tried — very hard —  _not_ to think about it. As Pepper turned away to wash her hands, Tony stared up at the lights. The door shut behind her. His heart thumped loudly.

As the years passed, Tony, naturally, continued celebrating his extravagant birthdays. At each one, a distinguished board member sidled up to him with a glittering glass and asked him to consider, you know, throwing in the towel. With Pepper still as CEO they had little to worry about, other than whether Tony could remain able to serve as the face of Stark Industries. Even so, he was determined to show the company that nothing could stop him at 50, even less at 55, and don’t-even-hint-at-age-being-a-problem-if-you-want-to-keep-your-job at 60. Life went on. Inasmuch as Pepper stayed the unwavering, confident head of the company amidst the highs and lows of the stock market (when people very much could, then very much couldn’t, afford SI gadgets), well... she, very slowly, but surely, faded out of his personal life. ‘Pepper’ was long a thing of past, a name to fondly recall with a pang and then to bury with gruelling physical work in the shop. Or gym. Or what have you. 

As for The Avengers Initiative: its members, and the world, soon found it was perfectly possible to move on and forget about the whole thing altogether. New York was... New York. It was done and dusted, to be shoved in some file cabinet with a sign warning _Beware of the Leopard_ and that was... just that. Amidst the chaos of the event, none of them would have predicted that it would not prey on their minds for the rest of their lives… and yet. Sure, Tony woke with nightmares every now and then — nightmares of falling into a stretching, gaping maw, a dark, terrible abyss dotted with scattered stars. But that was usual. They each had their own issues, soon repressed, rarely vocalised, later simply a part of who they were.

Occasionally one or two of the team would drop by Stark Tower. Tony would pop them a bottle of champagne, they would laugh raucously together and reflect over the good times. But then they would inevitably leave him again, smiling and waving as they disappeared from view in the elevator, and Tony would return to his own bed. Some came by more than others, some for longer than others, and some not at all. Yes, he missed the camaraderie they once shared, the way the tower used to be alive and buzzing with energy, the wonderful chaos of too many heroes stuffed in a single space. He missed it, but he missed it in the way he missed going for motorcycle rides and bungee jumps. It, too, was a thing of the past.

That’s not to say that Tony Stark got noticeably more responsible, of course. He simply found that with each passing year there was simply less enjoyment to be found in running around, mindlessly challenging death for the sake of it. If a real therapist had ever gotten their hands on Tony they might have said he was maturing. Another might have declared him chronically depressed. But none ever got the chance, so it remained a mystery.

One pillar endured; he still had a friend in Bruce, whose own problems were washing away with age. It was as if the man’s whole state of mind exhaled with each new wrinkle; thus (from what Tony heard) Bruce found himself less and less employed as fists for hire. Which had its... ups and downs, he supposed. It was one thing not to be exploited as a weapon. It was another thing not to be thought of at all. 

As he said, it started with the arc reactor.

If any of them had stayed long enough to see, they would have noticed that Tony over the years relied more and more on JARVIS to tell him the location of his coffee grounds. The date of his next appointment. The identity of the latest celebrity to walk through his door. Thankfully, perhaps, none of them did, and with the upgrades to Dum-E and the quickly-evolving technology around him, Tony found himself perfectly able to cope on his own, thank you very much.

It was with that thought that he woke on the morning of his 65th birthday.

As soon as his eyes fluttered open Tony reached for the oft-upgraded and oft-remembered arc reactor. If any part of him persisted — remaining unchanged with the passing time — it was the hole in his chest. In some ways he took comfort from the fact that it was there. The rise and fall of the glowing hub, once an annoyance, was now an anchor.

“Good morning, Sir. And might I wish you a _very_ happy birthday.” The curtains wiped away to reveal the dazzling blue sea.

Tony grumbled. “You might, but that doesn’t mean you _should_ ,” he warned, but smiled all the same. He sat up, his ribs dully complaining as they always did, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In the god-knows-how-many years since he first built JARVIS the AI had improved to such an extent to almost literally, and sometimes literally, act as an extension of Tony himself. This had its benefits in that JARVIS was always more in tune with his creator’s to-do than said creator, but it occasionally had the downside of making Tony feel that he was doing no more than talk to himself. Then again what was an AI for if not to keep you company? JARVIS lingered even whilst everyone else drifted away. The AI was always a part of the tower, the suit, Tony himself. Like a moon, his presence steadfastly orbited Tony’s.

“What do I have today?” he asked the ceiling.

“Your _birthday party_ , Sir,” the voice supplied smoothly, and if Tony thought he heard a hint of worry in the AI’s tone he quickly dismissed it.

“Right,” nodded Tony. He pushed himself to a standing position from the bed and shuffled to the window. “My birthday party,” he echoed, mostly to himself. The blue of the arc reactor shimmered in the glass. He turned away. “JARVIS, please make the windows do less of that… reflect-y thing,” Tony said, waving his hand. Before he could get the words out the glass muted, then pulled away.

He breathed in, the wind making his greying hair dance and tickle his neck. It was going to be okay. Right? Sixty-five wasn’t so bad. He knew plenty of 65-year-olds who were still up and at ‘em. He also knew plenty of people dead before then. Such was life. He rubbed at his chin. “I need a shave,” he muttered, stalking off. The time for nostalgia was not now. Well, if he had his way, it was never. In spite of these wishes, he kept finding that thoughts of the past flitted into his mind to haunt him. Must be an age thing.

He shuffled into his bathroom, which was unusual in the sense that it was, for one, substantially smaller than most of the bathrooms in the wings he _didn’t_ live in (which is not to say it was small) and, for another, there was no mirror, but rather a single chair in front of a polished sink. Tony threw himself into this and lifted his chin. He always got a little antsy when the shaver whizzed too close to his face, even though _he_ was the one who designed it and all. The only problem was that he’d designed it relatively recently. While JARVIS could be counted on to point out his mistakes where there were any (and Tony would never admit there _were_ ), that didn’t mean it was 100% reliable. There was never a saying that an AI could only be as smart as its maker, because that wasn’t true — but Tony did worry. He worried a lot more lately than he did a decade ago. Must be an age thing. As he said. 

Not too much later he was dressed in a bold blue suit (“That’ll show those board members who’s _old._ ” “ _Yes_ , Sir.”), holding out his wrists so that Dum-E could slide in his cufflinks. When that was done he shook out his arms, cleared his throat, and wandered out of the room. There were times in the past where he would scheme to dramatically crash his own party in a red-and-yellow iron man suit. Forgetting whether he could still _do_ it (JARVIS could take care of that, with or without him inside), drawing attention to himself now seemed counterproductive. Maybe a couple of decades ago he’d want to show off, but these days he just wanted to _get on_ with it. Anyway, it was time to mentally prepare himself for the party, because oh, it was going to be a party, and _everyone_ was invited — it wouldn’t be a Stark birthday bash otherwise.

Soon the morning turned into the afternoon, and the afternoon turned into the evening, and the evening was filled with loud, modern, music. He didn’t understand these songs, still liked the oldies, but he let the DJ do his thing and meandered into the crowd after a moment’s hesitation. His arrival prompted a loud cheer, and a gaggle of unfamiliar people quickly inserted themselves into his personal space. Nothing but A-listers on the guest list, obviously, but that didn’t mean they were any less pathetic when trying to get on his good side. Ever since the Extremis app shitstorm he’d had no end of this crap. And that was years ago, for fuck’s sake. God, he needed a drink.

Making polite apologies, he extracted himself from the bubble and stalked off to a quiet corner of the room. A drink slid onto the counter next to him from a robotic cart. Tony stuffed one hand in his pocket and very carefully drank with his other, making sure the glass was never hovering high enough as to be accidentally dropped.

“Tony! Happy 65th!”

He turned at his name and locked onto a middle-aged man (since when were middle-aged men _younger_ than him?) striding merrily in his direction. 

_“Travis Weathers, board of directors, Stark Industries_ ”JARVIS supplied, for his ears only. Of course.

“Travis!” boomed Tony in return, pasting on a smile and turning from the counter. “Thank you. Barely feels like it.” He smirked. The man was unfortunately balding, with stringy brown hair and a girth that hinted at his spending power. Travis stuck out his hand to shake, wilting as Tony didn’t move to take it. Although Tony didn’t want to seem like the spoiled brat he knew his upbringing implied, he really couldn’t stand the nerve of the man before him. What happened to briefing these people? Idiots, all of them. “What can I help you with?” Tony continued easily, hiding his irritation.

The man stepped over, meeting him at the counter. As he did so, Tony shifted and leaned over, taking another sip of his drink. “Do you have a moment, Tony?”

Travis looked over-determined, armed with his mission that Tony knew would be the same as the missions of the other slimeballs before him. He really didn’t have the patience for this crap. Tony knew — if Travis were allowed to continue talking — the conversation would end with a shattered glass and an automatic booting from the company due to a vote of no confidence. They all wanted him out, wanted him quickly out,before the rest of the world realised that Tony Stark was getting _old_ and then sold all their shares of Stark Industries. See, Travis Weathers and the others didn’t care one whit about Tony. What they cared about was themselves, and that their own pockets would remain flush with cash. Suffice to say, Tony didn’t give a shit. 

“Not right now,” he said, smiling forcefully. He pretended to see something in the distance. “I have to- talk with someone right now. But we’ll do this later. Nice talking to you-” —  _Fuck._ _“Travis,”_ reminded JARVIS — “Nice talking to you, Travis.”

For fuck’s sake. And he was only 65.

He shuffled off as quickly as he could in the throng — nodding at everyone who grabbed at him and wished him a happy birthday — and stubbornly headed towards the terrace. The doors slid away as he neared, and he relished the fresh air that cleared his head.

God, he was tired. Not just now, not just sleepy, but tired. Damn tired. Thankfully no one followed him out, and he managed to make it to a patio chair without any more fuss. A robotic cart whirred next to him, holding his abandoned drink. He eyed the glass and sighed, clenching and unclenching his hand. The bass-filled music drifted through the open door.

A voice cut through the haze. “Never thought I’d see myself at a party like this. I didn’t even know this many people existed in the whole _country_.”

Tony’s head whipped around. “Bruce!” he said, smiling widely. He pushed himself up, only slightly leaning on the arm of the chair. They closed the gap and embraced. His old friend looked, well, old but Tony guessed he did too. Bruce’s once-black hair was now decidedly grey and crow’s feet stretched their welcome by his eyes. Those eyes were the first warm ones he’d seen all day and, god, he was happy to see them. “It’s great you’re here, man. You got my invitation!”

“Yup,” chuckled Bruce, smoothing down his shirt. “All the way in Cambodia. How did you find me?” He cracked a smile.

“I always know how to find you,” returned Tony, filling in the familiar joke. He tapped his temple with his index finger and smiled fondly. “Doctors reunited. Come on, sit down.” Tony made his way back to the patio chair and eased himself in as Bruce found his own seat. He rubbed the cool surface of the chair with his left hand, looking at his knees. Tony could forget a whole lot of things but he hoped he would never forget his partner in science. On the other hand he might be glad to forget Rhodey, whose well-attended funeral passed only a few short months ago. Or Happy, who went a few years before. Selective amnesia. He _had_ considered it, but JARVIS veto’d it. Why he gave his AI voting rights he’ll never know and probably forever rue. “How are you?” He met Bruce’s gaze.

“Oh, you know,” Bruce laughed, seeming infinitely more at ease than when they had first met, what felt like aeons ago. “Feeling...” he shrugged. “Feeling like the world’s going on without me.” For a moment, a deep sadness seemed to pervade him and he looked, lost, into the horizon. Then he shook it off. “You know,” he repeated, shrugging again and twisting his mouth. 

Tony hummed in response, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

Bruce glanced at Tony, and then at the untouched drink on the cart. “Are you all right?” he asked. After this many years, Bruce knew well enough that the question was rarely answered truthfully, if at all. Still, he could never shake off the habit of asking. Habits and routine. They were all getting old. Bruce loosened his tie a bit. Green tie. Hilarious.

“I’m fine,” muttered Tony distractedly. He looked at his hands then stuffed them back in his pocket. That wasn’t a conversation to be having right now, not on his birthday. Birthdays were supposed to be fun, joyous occasions. Not that they had been ever since he started creeping past 50. Now he was 65. Damn. How did the years fly by? He really needed to be doing more of that living in the moment shit. He bet Bruce was doing some of that. But neither of them could keep track of the passing time.

Bruce nodded slowly. He knew not to press when it wouldn’t do any good. Or when he already knew the answer; that answer pretty much remained the same since long before Bruce ever met Tony. Oh well. “How’s your newest project going? Still tinkering in the lab?”

Tony frowned, looking away and biting his lip. He seemed to sag in his chair. “Not... really,” he admitted. His frown deepened even more. No, he was not going to think about it now. He was _not_. He let the sound of the waves take over and the thought drifted away. Waves in, waves out, waves in, waves out. Square breathing. That was how Bruce taught him, years ago. It did help, sometimes. Not always with the panic attacks but those were inevitable, yet, diminishing. Like everything else, really.

“Is it,” the voice gently pushed him back into the present, “Is it getting worse?”

“It’s a progressive neurodegenerative disease, Bruce,” snapped Tony, sitting up, losing the moment. “Of course it’s getting worse, that’s the fucking definition.” He stood up, too quickly, and shuffled to the rail, scowling. Bruce cared too much, that was his fucking problem. Pepper eventually stopped, realising it was no use. But Bruce still cared too fucking much. That’s why Bruce was in Cam-fucking-bodia. At 66. What the _fuck_ was that about?

Decades ago the raised voice would have sent civilians running in fear of The Hulk, but it didn’t now. “I know. I’m sorry,” returned Bruce, slowly, softly. “I’m sorry. I thought the treatment might’ve-”

“Well, it didn’t,” spat Tony. He stared resolutely into the dark night air, discerning just the edge of waves that crashed and fell. “Look, can we not talk about this? It’s my fucking birthday. I’d like for us to not talk about it. Let’s just have a fucking nice time, for fuck’s sake.” Tony let go of the rail, shaking out his hand, and stuffed it back into his pocket. The patio chair creaked. Waves in, waves out. Waves in, waves out. He was fucking _zen_. Grey hair popped into his peripheral vision, prompting Tony to look over. His brow was still tightly creased. Bruce might have learned to let go of his anger but Tony hadn’t. He wondered if he was turning into a bitter old man, no one to talk to but his fucking AI in his big, empty house. The only thing stopping him from being a caricature was that he wasn’t talking to _himself_ but, as established, there was hardly a difference anymore.

“All right. I’m sorry, Tony. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Bruce put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, one of the few (three? four? now, probably two) people in the world able to do so without dire consequences. “I’m sorry. What do you want to talk about?” The hand lifted.

“I don’t know,” sighed Tony, his taut features melting into a more relaxed expression. “Why am I having this party, anyway? That’s a rhetorical question. I mean, I’m not enjoying this... this,” he said, pointing his head to the frenetic music behind them. “I don’t enjoy being harassed by people I barely or don’t know, and members of my own fucking company. _My_ company, for fuck’s sake. Why do I do this to myself?”

Bruce nodded slowly, humming. “Routine?” he offered quietly, smirking.

“Rhetorical question,” reminded Tony with a smile.

“I know,” said Bruce, bumping shoulders gently, as if they weren’t in their mid-60s.

Bruce. He could never get tired of Bruce. He could, and did, get tired of life, but not Bruce. Too bad the idiot didn’t come by more often. But maybe he _would_ get sick of him then, maybe they would shout at each other until their throats turned raw, maybe they would slam the door so many times that the jambs would break. Like him and Pepper. Fuck. He didn’t want to think about Pepper right now. Pepper, who was probably milling in the crowd behind them. “How’s... the rest?” asked Tony quickly, trying to deter his thoughts, though not sure if he really wanted to know the answer. “You know.” He turned around to scan the huddle of upper-class guests but couldn’t spot anyone he knew. At his own damn birthday party, no less. “Are any of them here?”

Bruce shook his head. “None of them could make it. Sorry.”

Tony frowned, trying and failing to suppress the flash of hurt. How could the feelings of rejection as a young boy at college be so far and faint yet so near and real? Fuck this shit. He was 65, he was supposed to have mellowed out. Not still be like this. Tony took a breath, launching into his tirade. “All right, I get Thor. He’s busy with his supernatural whatever. And Clint and me were, well, all right. Fine. But Nat? And... and...” He faded, gritting his teeth. _Fuck._  

“Steve,” said Bruce quietly, just as JARVIS did the same.

“Steve,” he continued, ignoring The Look he was getting and picking back up. If he had the grip strength his knuckles would be white on the rail. “I thought... Well...” 

“They were tied up,” sighed Bruce. “I’m really sorry, Tony. Steve and Nat said to send their love and birthday wishes. Clint too.”

Assholes. Well, maybe that was a bit harsh. But that fucking Steve was probably still galavanting around doing his supersoldier shit, and Nat was probably more than capable of still doing _business_. They were forever young, and all that crap. As for Clint, who knew about that dude but it was likely that asshole would be shooting arrows ‘til the day he died. Really, Tony wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Clint _actually shooting arrows on his deathbed_ , a target set up at his feet. Meanwhile, Tony had a timer going, had one ticking down since the caves, and he knew he was living his second life as it was but that didn’t make him any less bitter about it winding down.

Tony scowled again. “Whatever,” he declared, sounding 20 again, and maybe that was the point. He rubbed at his chest, the glow of the arc reactor dimming as his fingers passed over it. “At least you’re here. My science bro.” They both laughed at the word, sounding anachronous coming from his mouth, at his age. The laugh turned into a cough on Tony’s part but he hid it quickly.

“Science bro,” agreed Bruce with a warm smile, staring out into the distance. They were lost for a moment in remembrance. Things were peaceful, so much more than _back then_ , but neither of them knew which one they preferred. Only problem was you didn’t know which part of your life was the best one ‘til you lived them all. A soft breeze passed over them. 

Tony turned, hearing chants of his name rising in volume behind them. He shared a look with Bruce. “I... I better go, I guess,” he said, scrunching his hands into loose fists. “I probably have to give a speech or something. Birthday and all.” 

“All right,” said Bruce. Neither moved.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” Tony smiled, his eyes glittering. Was he always this fucking sentimental? Must be an age thing. “Don’t be a stranger.”

They shared a hug. Tony buried his face in Bruce’s neck, relishing the warmth of the embrace, knowing what would happen, knowing how different they’d be next time, if there were a next time. They reluctantly let go.

“Well, I better...” trailed off Tony, pointing his chin at the continuing chant.

“All right,” Bruce echoed, smiling ruefully. He backed away slowly.

“See you later, big guy,” said Tony, clapping him on the shoulder. He let his hand rest there for a moment, before pulling away. With that, he turned and shuffled towards the din. He didn’t look back; he knew Bruce would be gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've written in a while. I just have a lot of feelings about Tony, and Bruce, and thinking about how the years would pass them by. 
> 
> Thanks to lloydsglasses for graciously proofreading this, and whitchry9 for enabling my Tony Stark angsting.


End file.
